


How Many Have You Had?

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [17]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg is Caring, M/M, Mycroft is Soused, Mystrade Prompt Challenge, Nothing naughty, Sharing a Bed, There May be More to Come..., What else is there?, pre-Mystrade, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: My third entry for the Mystrade Prompt Challenge on tumblr.Dialogue - "How many have you had?"Circumstances - In a hotel, on a dull afternoon





	How Many Have You Had?

**Author's Note:**

> This one took me little longer, because my muse wanted to make it *more*. So there may be a second chapter, depending on how the weekend goes. The rating will change if that happens.
> 
> Please do comment, keep that bloody muse occupied!

Mycroft sighed muzzily as he stared out of the hotel bar’s windows. Just after three in the afternoon, and the pavement was teeming with life. That one was rushing off to pick his children up from the nursery, and this one was furtively sneaking off for a bit of afternoon delight. People walking dogs and popping into shops, stopping to chat with casual acquaintances while sipping substandard coffee from paper cups.

He sighed again. All this hustle and bustle, and all of it completely and utterly _dull._ Mycroft downed the rest of his drink, signalling for another without pausing to assess his condition. Nobody cared whether he drank himself into oblivion - least of all himself.

Dull, dull, dull. He knew himself to be above it all, and yet... Mycroft scowled. No. That sort of thing was for the plebians, not for him. If his silly little brother wished to lower himself to their level for the sake of - whatever he and John were involved in, that was no concern of his. Let him try to be normal, if that was what he truly wanted. Let him be - human.

Mycroft took a swig from his glass and poured another finger from the bottle that the bartender had thoughtfully left for him. Hm. His vision seemed to be growing a bit dim, maybe he should slow down a bit.

_Gulp._

Another presence suddenly appeared on the stool next to him, and Mycroft swayed slightly in muted shock. He should have heard them coming, should have sensed...

“How many have you had?”

He reeled at the sound of the voice, low and gravelly with that hint of West Country that always sent his heart rate into double-time. _‘Damn. Shit and fuck, while I’m at it.’_

Mycroft turned his head as imperiously as he could, his lips twitching as he blinked blearily at one Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. “I could not say.” He was very careful to articulate each word distinctly.

“You mean you don’t want to say.”

“I shaid what I meant, Leshstrade.” Mycroft internally cursed the slight slurring as Lestrade’s eyebrow lifted. “I quite losht count.”

“Right.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened in outrage as the bottle was whisked away from his reach, and he very nearly toppled off the stool as he tried to grapple for it. He came up against a very solid body instead, and was content enough to grapple with that for a moment or two.

Lestrade huffed out a strained sort of chuckle as he slipped a supportive arm around Mycroft’s waist, nodding at the bartender. Pulling a keycard from his pocket, he handed it over. “Charge it to the room, please.”

Mycroft blinked, and left his eyes closed for a bit longer, as they were suddenly very heavy. “Room?”

Lestrade swivelled, bodily hauling him into a somewhat upright position by the waistband of his trousers. Mycroft squeaked out a protest, but forced himself to shuffle his legs along as he was steered in the direction of the hotel lifts. He sensed (rightly, as it turned out) that he would wind up being carried if he didn’t keep his feet moving.

The not entirely unwelcome image of himself slung arse-up on Lestrade’s shoulder flitted over his mind’s eye, and Mycroft giggled faintly. He couldn’t quite tell if it was censure or amusement in Lestrade’s eyes when he glanced at him, and that was almost enough to shake him out of his fugue. Almost. The alcohol was threatening to throttle all of his deductive reason and common sense right out of him, but by damn, Mycroft Holmes could hold his bloody liquor!

He bounced off the doorway as Lestrade manhandled him out of the lift and shuffled him down the corridor. He propped Mycroft up against the wall, fumbling to get the keycard inserted correctly. Lestrade cursed quietly as Mycroft started to slip down the wall, quickly ducking down to halt his progress. Although there was a bit of confusion on Mycroft’s part, he obeyed Lestrade’s terse, “Lean over me,” and whooped inelegantly as he was hauled right off his feet.

“Oof.” Mycroft clutched at Lestrade’s suit jacket as he was carefully manoeuvred into the room, one arm securely wrapped around his upper thighs. He did take just a moment to lift up said jacket and sneak a peek at Lestrade’s bum, but his angle was sorely lacking, and the cut of his trousers was not flattering in the least. Mycroft had just enough time to contemplate a tactile investigation before he felt his world tipping right side up and then he was flat on his back on a plush mattress.

Mycroft groaned and clutched at his head, swiftly segueing into high-pitched giggles. _“Wheee...”_

“Sweet Christ.”

Mycroft frowned up at the ceiling and listened to Lestrade rummaging in the mini-fridge, his spirits livening up a bit. “I sshall have a whishky.”

“No you bloody well shall _not._ ” Lestrade set two bottles of water on the bedside table and reached out to take Mycroft’s flailing hands. He steadily and carefully pulled him up into a sitting position and cracked one of them open, holding it out in an obvious demand. “All of it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft blew a raspberry, but took the bottle and began to sip at it under Lestrade’s watchful eye. Even though the man hadn’t lectured him nor made any disapproving remarks, there was something about his posture and the stern look in his eyes that made Mycroft feel like a naughty child. He slowly shrank down into himself, his shoulders rounding as he hunched down and stared blankly at Lestrade’s shoes. Mycroft frowned to himself. He should be able to tell where he’d been, what he had been doing, but he could only think, ‘They certainly don't look all that comfortable...’

Lestrade gently extracted the empty bottle from his hands and reached out to tug at the lapels of Mycroft’s jacket. “I’m going to help you undress, okay?”

Mycroft’s head whipped up, upsetting his delicate balance and nearly pitching him off the bed. “You _what_?”

Lestrade held up his hands as if in surrender. “You don’t want to sleep in it, do you?”

Mycroft blinked at him until his heart rate returned to something resembling a normal pattern. “Oh. Um. N-no. Quite right.” He began to shrug out of his jacket, getting hopelessly tangled in just a manner of moments. “Shit. Shorry. I - um.”

“It’s alright, Mycroft. Just let me.”

Mycroft sighed and nodded somewhat miserably, closing his eyes and allowing Lestrade to move him this way and that as he stripped him of his clothing. He steadfastly refused to open his eyes as he felt Lestrade’s body heat drift down, as thick fingers fumbled with his shoelaces and gently slipped his shoes free. Mycroft bit his lip as he felt a tug at his socks, his cheeks heating as Lestrade lifted his trouser leg and chuckled quietly at his garters. But again, there were no negative comments, and no teasing.

“Put your arm around my shoulders. Here.” Lestrade took Mycroft’s arm and positioned it before wrapping his arm around his waist and helping him to stand. He kept his eyes closed as he felt his trousers drop to his ankles, lifting each foot as his knees were tapped one at a time. Standing there in vest and pants, Mycroft shivered gently at the lightest brush of Lestrade’s fingers. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

Mycroft showed his teeth in an ineffectual snarl. “Probably shmart.”

“Sorry to ask this, but...” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Do you need help?”

Mycroft’s face heated even further as he drew himself up, sticking his nose in the air. He resolutely took a step forward and nearly tripped over his shoes. Gasping out loud as he flailed his arms and once again came up against a very solid body, he blew a goodbye kiss to his pride and nodded feebly.

“I’ll just make sure you get there okay and leave you be.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered just how a person who had seen so much utter shit in his life could remain so kind, so - selfless. So human. Maybe… Maybe it wasn’t such a dull thing to be. Not that he was capable of reawakening that latent tendency in himself - if he even had it to begin with.

Mycroft leant up against the bathroom sink as Lestrade slipped away, courteously closing the door behind him. He blinked against the sudden influx of light, staring blearily at his reflection. His traitorous complexion was pallid and mottled with the alcohol, and his eyes were bloodshot, weary with whatever foolish crusade had brought him to this place. And now he just looked like a pathetic wastrel in front of one of the only people that he genuinely cared for. Someone that he would be extremely lucky to ever see again, after putting him through this.

_Ah, shit._

Oh well. It was done now, although once he was a little clearer-minded he would have to ferret out exactly how Lestrade had come to find him, with a hotel room at the ready to boot.

Moving cautiously, with one hand always planted firmly on a solid surface, Mycroft began his usual ablutions, taking advantage of the small toiletry kit that had been thoughtfully provided by the hotel. He lifted a brow as it opened to reveal his preferred brands, and suddenly he knew exactly how and why Lestrade had come to find him.

She would be fired immediately, of course.

With bladder voided and with his mouth fresh and minty, Mycroft opened the door and stood there, still swaying slightly. “Detect - um, Lesh-”

Lestrade reached for him, gently tipping up his face and looking at him seriously. “Greg - please.”

Mycroft nodded, feeling almost dazed as he was led back to the bed, which had been turned down for him. He slipped between the sheets and settled back against the neat pile of pillows, smiling wryly as the second bottle of water was handed to him.

“If I happen to have an accident in the night...”

“Entirely my fault, I know. This is so you won’t regret it in the morning.” Greg twinkled at him faintly. “At least not quite as severely.”

Mycroft nodded glumly and sipped at the bottle, his fingers playing with the edge of the duvet. “What now? It’s only half-five, I’m not sleepy.”

Greg lifted a brow as Mycroft’s eyelids drooped. “Right.” He reached for the television remote and flicked it on, flipping through the channels. “Here we are. Nice old black and white film to keep you entertained for a while.”

Mycroft felt the smile creep over his face as he looked at the opening credits for _Arsenic and Old Lace_ scrolling across the screen. He glanced at Greg, hovering uncertainly between the bed and the door, and felt a sudden twinge. “Shtay?” Greg blinked at him before nodding slowly and heading for the small sofa on the other side of the room. Without thinking on it too hard, Mycroft reached out and patted the empty space on the bed next to him. “Please? We can watch it together.”

Another slow blink, and Greg inclined his head, slipping his jacket and shoes off. He crawled on top of the blankets, settling close enough that Mycroft could feel the faint corona of his body heat. “This is one of my favourites, actually. Cary Grant was such a lovely man.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped in his chest and he sputtered on his water. He waved off the look of concern on Greg’s face as he cleared his throat, his head spinning slightly. The more he contemplated that casual throwaway remark, the more spinny his head seemed to get, until he simply couldn’t stand it any more.

“You...” Mycroft swallowed hard. “You find men aesthetically pleasing?”

Greg kept his eyes on the television as he nodded briefly, one corner of his lips turning up. “Yeah, I do.” He abruptly turned his head, and Mycroft was suddenly struck by just how deep his eyes were. “Especially elegant men in well-turned suits.”

Mycroft squeaked. “Ah.” He shivered as his whole body seemed to flush, sinking down lower in the bed and pulling the covers to his chin. Mycroft closed his eyes, smiling to himself as Greg chuckled quietly. Whether it was at him or at the delightfully demented killers on the screen, he wasn’t at all sure, but he allowed the soothing sound to drag him under into a deep sleep.

Mycroft’s bladder awakened him sometime in the earliest hours, and he blindly shuffled towards a thin sliver of light that heralded the toilet. It wasn’t until he stepped in and closed the door behind him that he recalled that he wasn’t at home. His business concluded, he slipped out and made sure to leave the door slightly ajar so as not to lose his way. Mycroft paused as he noted that the bed was empty, his heart sinking to his toes. It jumped back up into his chest as he turned and saw Greg asleep on the small sofa, his body scrunched into an awkward shape and shivering faintly under a thin blanket.

_Well, that won’t do. Not at all._

Mycroft bent down, but swiftly crouched instead as his head still felt like it wasn’t screwed on quite right. He bit his lip as he reached out, gently shaking Greg’s shoulder. “Greg?”

“Mm?” Greg blinked, making another noise that really shouldn’t have been as enticing as it was. “Croft?”

_Oh fuck me..._ Mycroft’s knees wobbled even as he hummed in confirmation. “Yes, it’s me.”

“You ‘kay?”

_Oh sweet Lord._ “I’m fine, Greg. I just...” Mycroft paused as Greg’s eyes fluttered, suspecting that he might regret this in the bright light of day, but knowing for sure that he’d regret it more if he let the opportunity pass. “I’m lonely. And cold.” As if on cue, he shivered, and Greg’s hand came up to hold his. “Come to bed. Please.”

“M’kay.”

Mycroft slowly rose to his feet as Greg kicked his way free from the useless blanket, shuffling blindly behind him as he was tugged to the bed. Mycroft did not release his hand as he crawled back into the bed, pulling Greg in behind him and rolling onto his side. He made sure that Greg’s arm was tucked in securely around his middle, sighing breathily as it tightened around him briefly.

“Better?”

Mycroft shuddered at the sound of that voice, low and gravelly and somehow slyly amused, even fogged with sleep. “You have no idea how much better.”

Greg wriggled into his backside, heaving out a deep sigh. “Sleep, Croft.”

Mycroft blinked disbelievingly in the semi-darkness, silently resolving to stay awake as long as possible simply to relish the sensation of another body pressed so close to his. Greg’s body in particular, of course. He’d been a fool to think that he was above all this, when all it had taken was some simple kindness and genuine affection to melt the ice in his bones. Only flesh and blood, after all.

Mycroft closed his eyes and snuggled in a little closer. He’d have to apologise to Sherlock later...

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or brit-picked. Characters not mine, but the situation definitely is!
> 
> If you'd like to get notifications from tumblr, I'm at 'bitemebat.tumblr.com'. Come follow me, and you'll get pretty boys and soft kitties on your dash!
> 
> (I'm also over on Pillowfort.io if anyone out there is giving them a shot - as 'sanguisuga'. Come follow me and join the 'mystrade' community!)


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